The Ties that Blind
by AngelDormais
Summary: Growing to love Souji as his own came with time and a change in life for the better. Growing to understand him would take more. Done for the P4 Kink Meme.
1. Chapter 1

1-

Ryotaro Dojima was indeed a detective, but it didn't take one to realize that something was changing in his household.

"Welcome home, Uncle." The voice penetrated the thick silence as Dojima shed his shoes by the front door, the usual hum of the television absent. He moved into the living room to see his nephew sitting at the low table with a pile of origami papers in front of him. "You're early."

"Adachi told me he would handle tonight's paperwork." Damn idiot would probably misfile something. Dojima sighed and reached up to hang his jacket. "He said he ran into you at Junes today. Seemed to think you were planning something special for dinner and that I should be here for it."

"Ah. I'm sorry, then." Souji sounded strangely pleased with himself for someone who was apologizing. "It's not special at all."

Ryotaro turned his head, eyebrow raised. "What's that supposed to mean?"

His nephew shrugged and continued tending to an origami. "I only made oyakodon. If I'd known that Adachi-san had raised your expectations, I would have made something a bit fancier."

Dojima was silent for several long seconds, which finally allowed him to catch the scent of chicken and soy sauce in the air. His head spun to where a pot and three bowls were stationed on the table.

Unbelievable. He knew Souji was a busy person; paychecks for about four different jobs came regularly in the mail, and that didn't include this weird volunteer origami thing that his nephew pulled every few evenings. On top of homework and picking up the slack on Nanako's upbringing—Christ. No wonder the kid's hair was silver at his age.

Realizing that his pause was getting just a little bit too long, he rubbed the back of his head and smiled awkwardly. "No, that's…great. You didn't have to wait for me if you were hungry, you know."

"Of course we did," Souji insisted. "I wasn't about to let you come home and eat those moldy rice balls in the back of the fridge."

Aw, crap. He forgot about that. "You found those, huh? So I guess you threw them out."

"No, I ate them."

…Conversation effectively ended.

Souji took the opportune silence to inspect the origami figure in his hand carefully. Once he seemed satisfied he leaned back slightly and looked at his lap. Dojima spotted Nanako's head resting there; Souji reached down with a free hand and flicked one of her pigtails softly. "Nanako, wake up."

"Wha?" The girl sat up sleepily, rubbing her eye. "Did I fall asleep?"

Souji held out a closed fist and smiled. It was a soft, brilliant grin; Dojima couldn't blame his daughter for brightening at the very sight of it. "I made you something."

"Ooh, really!?" Nanako pried his fist open, then frowned. "But—there's nothing there! Big _Broooo!_"

Dojima suppressed the urge to cuff his nephew for pulling something like that—Souji wasn't an asshole, especially not to Nanako. His suspicions were proven correct when Souji reached behind the little girl's ear, then pulled away with the origami figure in his hand. He winked as he pressed it into his cousin's hand. "Fooled you."

Nanako giggled and looked at her present. Immediately her eyes grew wide and she squealed, wrapping her arms around Souji's torso. "A platypus! Thanks, Big Bro!"

God. Dojima had never seen her so happy in his damn life. And it was over a magic trick and a folded piece of paper.

Souji, for his part, only ruffled her hair. "Hey, Little Sis, look who's home."

Ah. That would be his cue, wouldn't it? Dojima grinned, and this time it came more easily. Coming home to an excited daughter was something he was more well-versed with. Nanako let go of Souji immediately and sprung to her feet, her face brightening even more. (Christ, _so happy._) "Dad!"

"Hey, Nanako." Ryotaro easily accepted her as she jumped into his arms. She squealed and hugged his neck and it didn't take him long to realize, _he_ was almost has happy. "Did you help Souji cook dinner?"

"Uh-huh! He let me wash the rice and made me his official stirrer!"

Souji came up on the side, hands shoved in his pockets and a lazy smile on his face. "She was very helpful, Uncle."

"Come on, dad! I'm starving!"

Dojima decided, as his daughter dragged him to his seat, that Souji was causing some very palpable changes in his household. He decided, while Souji's hand folded over Nanako's over the ladle and they scooped the broth together, that he didn't particularly understand why.

But for the rest of the night, he decided that it was for the better.


	2. Chapter 2

Dojima had no idea what to do.

He paced furiously across the limited space of his nephew's room, a hand clasped over his mouth and nose. He looked at the overturned futon, stopped, took several steps toward the peeled-back rug, turned around, studied the couch cushions scattered on the floor. Gripped his hair. Insane.

He hadn't meant for this to happen. Dojima was a lot of things—_a goddamn cop_ for instance—but even he had a standard, and on any other day tearing apart his nephew's room didn't fall under its jurisdiction. Hell, even now a part of him still felt guilty for it. Even after this.

It was only curiosity. Dojima had entered Souji's room just to make sure that he'd put away the model he'd been toiling away at for the past few evenings. And indeed the mess of loose pieces and an unfinished frame that looked something of a crippled Transformer were gone, packed neatly into a box on the shelf.

The detective would have been set to leave right there, if a glare of light from beneath the curtain had not flashed against his eye. A spike of something metal-looking was jutting up from between the cushions of the couch stationed beneath the window. He hadn't a clue what the hell it could have been—

Maybe if Souji had been different, Dojima would have been able to grill him and be done with it. Maybe if his nephew had acted a little more broken, shown anything besides a glint of—_loneliness_ in those lukewarm eyes. He knew psychos and serial killers; they were fucked up in the head something bad—killed small animals when humans were off the menu. Cute and harmless things, like cats.

…Goddammit. Souji _fed_ cats.

Why did this have to happen? And during the string of murder cases. They hadn't started until Souji showed up—

—and the thought was trampled and burned and its ashes were scattered across Dojima's mind. No. Never. Not Souji.

Ryotaro halted in his erratic movements and knelt down beside the coffee table, picking up a dagger. The sharp hiss of metal sounded as the blade drew along the pile of every kind of weapon he could think of that Daidara sold: swords, knives, guns, claws…stranger things, too, objects not worth hiding, like shoes (vaguely noted as several sizes too small for Souji) and fans and even a shield that was wedged between Souji's desk and the wall. He could count maybe about fifteen in total, all crammed unceremoniously into every corner of the bedroom.

Now they were on the table and Dojima, Dojima had no idea what to do.

He could understand if it was a hobby. Everyone had those—Nanako liked to collect heart-shaped little pebbles, for example, and it wasn't a stretch of imagination by any means that a teenage boy would rather gather weapons. But Souji had very deliberately hidden them from sight.

To worsen things, Dojima quickly discovered signs of usage on some of them—the guns smelled like gunpowder, several knives were bent in places, and there were imprints where a person had gripped hard on a few of the sword hilts.

But most of all, a stench lingered on many of the blades—blood, he wanted to say, but it wasn't. It smelled like iron and death and darkness all at once, but at the same time like nothing at all. But one thing was painful in its truth: the scent wasn't the smooth bite of untouched metal.

God. What the hell. _What the hell._

The click of a door downstairs registered distantly in his mind. The dagger's grip only trembled faintly in his grip as he heard the footsteps plodding upstairs and realized that they were much too heavy to be Nanako's. The door creaked slightly, and Dojima felt the blood go icy in his veins.

"Souji."

There was a pause, a painful, aching silence, in which neither moved. Dojima forced his glare to meet the teenager's gaze, but found nothing dark or hating or deluded there; only mild shock, a touch of guilt, and cogs grinding away like wildfire somewhere behind those eyes. Finally, slow and cool and with a precision that was frightening with context: "Yes, Uncle?"

"Sit."

No words were spoken on the other end. The young man drew his hands from his pockets, calmly set the couch cushions back in place, and took a seat with his palms flat on his knees. Calculated, measured, but not defiant. Unreal attentiveness.

"You want to tell me what the hell these are?" Ryotaro pointed at the pile with the blade of the dagger, his voice stiff.

"Weapons," replied Souji. No shitting around. "I bought them from Daidara."

Dojima gave a half-snorting kind of sound, the dagger clattering on the table as it dropped from his hand. He'd have to have a chat with the blacksmith. "Did you, now."

Another wave of guilt shot across Souji's face. He'd just lost quite a bit of his uncle's trust, and while Dojima hadn't expected it to be half as devastating as it seemed to be now, he knew that this had been a blow. Souji was doing a good job of rolling with the punches all things considered.

"…Yes. I'm sorry, Uncle. I should have asked you first. If Nanako had found—"

"This isn't about Nanako," Dojima interrupted sharply. The fact that he hadn't taken her into consideration irritated him slightly: as per usual, the silver-haired boy was a step ahead. Souji never seemed to stop factoring others into his actions, and it made scolding him a lot damn harder. "She's a smart kid. I want to know why they were hidden, and why they look _used_."

"I bought them that way," he returned without missing a beat. "Used."

"Then you won't mind if I take them down to the station. Dust for fingerprints and see what comes up."

Something cold passed over Souji's eyes, but it was more a wave of dread than anything else. Why didn't he just hurry up and _prove Dojima wrong_ so they could forget this ever happened? "I thought so. Why don't you tell me what you've been doing with these?"

At that, Souji froze. It was a surreal sight—his nephew, unflappable and cool and always, always collected, lost everything in just one moment. A moment where his shoulders slumped, his razor-sharp eyes dulled and hit the ground, his steel voice rang with an empty echo. "I can't do that."

Ryotaro had never heard anything so hollow or seen anything so broken in his nephew and he _hated_ it. "Goddammit, Souji, sit up!"

The boy slumped a little further before pulling his shoulders straight and lifting his chin. But those damn eyes didn't change. "Uncle..."

"Stop. Don't say anything." Ryotaro rubbed his eyes with the other. "Just...prove to me that I can trust you, Souji. All I want is the truth."

Something in that last sentence seemed to grab Souji by the throat and _shake_ him. He stiffened, his eyes widening a fraction, his fingers gripping his knees so hard that his knuckles turned white.

And in the next instant, it was gone. Souji's gaze leveled with Dojima's, his eyes sharp and focused and so goddamn intense it could melt a glacier. "Uncle Dojima. I've never hurt any living being on this planet with these weapons."

That voice. Firm and commanding a respect that Dojima had already given long ago. The detective in him was screaming bullshit, but the resolution in his nephew's tone overpowered doubt like a raging blizzard. And as the next sentence slipped from his mouth, he knew that it was more of a statement than a question. "And that's the truth."

"Yes. And I know it's no explanation for—"

"Save it." Dojima held up a hand. "That's all I needed to know."

Souji held his gaze for several moments longer. And then, like a rubber band pulled taut, he broke away and turned his head to the side. He lowered his gaze and exhaled softly through his nose, scrubbing a palm over his face.

In that moment, every drop of power and authority drained from the teenager, and he was just that: a teenager. Young, oddly pale, trying to hold a broken family together when it would be all too easy to drift in the severed links. "Thank you."

Dojima's turn to look away. Sometimes he was so dazzled by Souji's ridiculous maturity, he forgot that it was trapped inside the body of a young man. And now, maybe for the first time, it dawned on him that he was raising Souji just as much as Souji was raising him.

It felt like a snap, a gun letting off or a cap on a pressurized bottle springing loose. He smiled and it reached his ears and he stepped over to Souji, slapping him on the shoulder roughly.

"Forget it." His nephew stared it bewilderment; it made grinning that much easier. "Now I just want to know why you're buying _women's shoes._"


	3. Chapter 3

**3-**

Ryotaro Dojima is a detective, but there are things in life that he has never been good at picking up on.

They are mundane—how to braid his daughter's hair, the fact that every New Year's resolution is to spend more time at home, the context behind his nephew's sometimes-disapproving eyes. And when they are noticed, somehow they never register as being more important than a punk with a gun or a body laced around an antennae or the bastard with the white sedan.

Sacrifices, he thinks, pretending that the stinging in his stomach is resolution. In order to protect his children, he will draw a line and stand on one side while they stand on the other.

At times Dojima presses the border. When he sees Nanako laughing and Souji smiling he wants to be _there_, wants to be part of this thing that looks more like a family than whatever it was that he left behind. At times he steps forward and then he has one foot in each world and feels more lost than ever.

Other times Souji comes and meets him there, and the line seems to swirl like dust at their feet. It's for the teenager that Dojima fears most—Souji _sees_ the line, and is not afraid to cross it. The threat of it always burns somewhere deep behind those eyes.

In one night, when the letter comes and everything falls apart, Detective Ryotaro Dojima realizes three things before his car hurls him from its wreckage.

One: His nephew has _always_ kept a foot in each world. But he would never cross.

Two: When Dojima found the letter, he all but yanked Souji onto the wrong side.

Three: They are all Nanako has—and so she followed.

Thoughts bleed onto the asphalt as he tumbles from a twisted carcass of metal. He counts the streetlights reflecting in the crimson pool beneath his head, and manages to lose the line completely.

—

So he learns.

When he doesn't try to force the world into black and white, the greys seep through every sidewalk crack and breath of fog. He memorizes their shades. He _learns_ to pick up on things—the dosage of his medicine, the name of his doctor and nurse and that the person standing by his bedside might be his nephew or might be Adachi. They're similar, he thinks, but doesn't know how—Souji is calm and silent and Adachi is fumbling and idiotic but goddammit they're just _similar_ and he doesn't try to make sense of it because he's already decided.

Lucidity trickles by with each passing day. The first is a disconnected mess; shreds of pain and confusion, the roaring white walls and a world that ebbs and flows before his eyes like a wave at shore. His mind swells within his skull, full of memories that have no finish, faces with no names and names with no meaning—_Izanami Izanami Izanami_—and sleep is the rush of tender mist that tempers the furnace.

Then he is awake with the world contained in a tube flowing into his vein. And somehow, it grows a little bit larger.

He learns to count the little things. His room number. Personnel name-tags. The sun rises through the window and teaches him that his room is on the east side of the building. He comes to realize that if someone doesn't bring him a lunch of yogurt and bread by two-thirty, he will receive a new drug dosage by four. There are fourteen ceiling tiles that have cracks in them, and if he sits up and twists his neck just so, he can see the Junes food court a few blocks away.

And eventually, he comes to pursue the knowledge. To cherish it. He listens to the doctors quietly conferring to one another their horror and helplessness in the town's drowning fog. The nurse sometimes makes passing comments that he can't understand, always a barb about family resemblance and that she should take up the night shift again. Adachi and Souji have stopped visiting.

And sometimes—fever dreams, can't be real, never be—there is a woman with gray hair and piercing red eyes, cloaked in white, stroking his hairline as he drifts between sleep and reality.

—

The day his daughter returns is the day that the world begins to shrink again.

Suddenly there is nothing but the pinpoint room where Nanako lies. He leaves his bed every chance he gets to sit at her side, to slip his rough, calloused hand around her impossibly small one; she is always pale, always cold, and always asleep.

The room is dark. He hates it. Her heart monitor bleats with bursts of static. He hates it. Hours pass and his limbs grow stiff and his wounds begin to ache until doctors come into the room—_"Again, Dojima-san?"_—and he's hauled away by that frightening nurse. He hates it.

But he hates himself most of all.

–

He's lost count of the days. But when he wakes up, Souji is at his bedside, slumped over the arm of his chair.

In a hospital gown.

"...Hey."

His nephew stirs and sits up with an uncomfortable wince. He wipes his mouth, blinking several times at the side of his wrist before looking up and offering Dojima a bleary smile. "You're awake."

"You're getting there yourself." Dojima doesn't try to stop the grin, but it creeps into a scowl as soon as he takes in the teen's clothes again. A thresh of panic flutters in his stomach. "Are you...a patient right now?"

"...Ah." Souji seems to bolt awake at that. "It's nothing to worry about, Uncle. I'm all right." He pauses. "Yosuke and Kanji are here, too."

And then the panic explodes. He knew that Hanamura kid was trouble ever since Dojima caught him showing Souji weapons, and Tatsumi's reputation is well-known around the police department. He grips the sheets in his hands and snarls, prompting his nephew's gaze to snap back in surprise. "What the hell did they drag you into?"

"It's not their fault." Souji shakes his head. "It was...the girls. Chie, Yukiko, and Rise. Naoto couldn't stop them in time."

Dojima can't think of anything to say to that. He doesn't know much about Satonaka or Amagi, but they never seemed like troublemakers—Kujikawa he could believe, maybe some weird celebrity penchant for "thrills"—he pauses, realizing that his nephew had just muttered something inaudible. "What?"

"Mystery Food X." Dojima lifts one eyebrow in confusion. Souji shifts uncomfortably and his face reddens as he puts a hand on his stomach. "Food poisoning."

He tries to process that. "...You were admitted to the hospital for food poisoning?"

"From what the doctors tell me." Souji moves again, looking somewhat queasy. "I don't remember much past putting the spoon in my mouth."

"You—" Dojima cuts himself off, raises a hand to rub his temple, and starts over. "You're all right, then?"

"Of course." Souji smiles. Ceiling cracks and sunlight streams have taught Dojima enough to see the lie in his eyes.

And know that they're not talking about food poisoning anymore.

—

"You idiot, that's Dojima-san's room! You can't just—"

Dojima's back goes ramrod as the door crashes open and two teenagers stumble inside, tripping over one another's hospital gowns. It doesn't take him long to recognize them as Hanamura and Tatsumi. The older of the two regains his balance first, and his eyes shoot open the moment he lays them on Dojima.

"D-Dojima-san! I'm _so_ sorry, I tried to tell him that you needed your rest—"

"Hold it, Yosuke-senapi!" Tatsumi snaps agitatedly, gaze locking with Dojima's. "Hey, you seen Souji-senpai anywhere!"

"Dude, _shut up_! He's not supposed to know even if Souji is here!"

"He was the last to go, right? What if they made him finish the whole thing!"

"Look, I know this is bad, but—"

Dojima clears his throat. "Souji was here a few minutes ago. He left to visit Nanako."

Relief seems to flood the two boys. Hanamura breathes a sigh. "He's alive...!"

…

"...Is there any reason he shouldn't be?"

"Those damn girls and their _cooking!_"

Hanamura shoots Tatsumi a look and elaborates. "Um, well...we all went to Sou—er, your house yesterday, Dojima-san. We figured Souji could use a little cheering up, you know? We thought we'd just keep him from running around trying to please us like he always does." The brunette chuckles, but it's strained. "It was working, until...well...the girls decided to cook something for us, and we didn't realize it until it was too late..."

"They cornered us and made us eat Mystery Food X!" Tatsumi puts his hand on his stomach as Souji had, looking even more sick. "Me n' Yosuke-senpai didn't last one bite, but Souji-senpai was s'posed to go after us anyway. When we woke up here an' didn't see him, we kinda thought...y'know..."

He does know. The world has melted from black and white to mixes of gray, and he knows so much more.

He lowers his head, clenches his eyes, hates the world beyond these new eyes and wishes for the world of two tones, for the line, for his _daughter_. He can sense the teenagers' awkward presence and tires not to care. No-good troublemakers. Delinquents. Loose cannons.

That care about his nephew. Friends. True, unwavering, loyal.

God_dammit._

"W-well..." Hanamura. "uh...thanks, Dojima-san. I guess we'll...go visit Nanako-chan too—"

Dojima's head lifts. "Wait." They do, one hand each frozen on opposite sides of the doorway. "I...what do you mean, 'cheering up'? Is something wrong?"

They turn back slowly, exchanging glances. Kanji steps forward and rubs the back of his neck. "Well...it ain't like it's your fault, Dojima-san, but..." The honorific rolls off his tongue awkwardly, as though it's the first time he's ever used one. "...none of us really thought about it 'till yesterday, ourselves. You n' Nanako-chan're laid up here, so Souji-senpai's been livin' alone for almost a month. An' it was just sorta...like the house was..._cold_ when we got there, y'know?"

Yosuke elbows him roughly and hisses something like, _"You didn't need to add that, moron!"_

But he's right. Scenery flashes against Dojima's mind—an empty house, cold seat cushions, futons folded neatly from disuse, the clocks scratching out loneliness from their places on the wall—the missing breaths of _"dad, you're back"_, _"welcome home,uncle"_, wisps of warmth channeled from a steaming ramen cup and the prattles of news, patters rain, splatters of a body on an antennae the next morning and nobody to protect from it—

He gasps and finds the boys leaning over him, worry written into their features. "Dojima-san! Are you all right?"

He sits up and grasps their arms, his throat trembling. "Take care of him."

"...S-Senapi, should we call for the nurse?"

"I'm fine!" He shakes his head furiously. "Just...hear me out. I need you to take care of Souji for me."

They watch him in silence, eyes wide. Their pulses race beneath his hands. "I wanted to be the person he counted on me to be...but instead I begged him to go out and find my missing daughter. I botched it, so I...Imade him promise to do it for me. And he...brought her back. I don't know how, but he..." He lowers his head. "Please. He doesn't owe me anything. I know you care about him, so..."

"You're wrong, sir." He stiffens and looks up, one final time. Hanamura gazes back.

"W-what...?"

Kanji smiles. "'Course he owes you stuff. You're his _family_, dammit. That's all the reason we ever needed."


	4. Chapter 4

**4-**

As promised, Souji returns the night of March twentieth: exhausted, pale, and sweating. But there's a glow in his eyes that tells all the story Dojima needs to hear.

Nanako fusses a little. She runs up and pulls Souji by the hand to the couch, then pushes him down and feels his forehead. Souji doesn't hide his smile. (Neither does Dojima.)

"Big Bro, you look sick! You can't get on the train tomorrow like this!"

Souji just chuckles and leans into her hand obediently. "Nice try; your father's already bought my ticket. I just overdid it a little...all I need is a good night's sleep."

Nanako takes up her index finger and waggles it at her cousin. "Don't pretend you're feeling better than you really are! You'll need a lot of healthy food and rest first," she says firmly, and then marches off towards the fridge.

Souji watches her putz around the kitchen with a fondness in his smile. Something solidifies in Dojima's stomach, warm and familiar, and suddenly it's decades in the past and he's looking up at his sister's face as she reaches down and ruffles his hair—the skin creases around her eyes to make room for that soft grin, the dimple in her left cheek, a gentle glow in steel-colored eyes for a younger sibling.

When he blinks again, he's moved to sit down beside Souji, who's looking at him mildly. (With sunlight and ceiling cracks and lying eyes, he sees apprehension.) "I don't suppose you'll tell me what the hell you were doing," he mutters, careful not to draw Nanako's attention.

Souji's head tilts back and lands against the couch with a soft _thump_. He breathes once, then meets his uncle's eyes. "No. But I can leave in peace now."

Dojima tenses. Sounds far too much like dying words. Souji might have caught that too, because he adds, "I finally found it. It's harder to go back now that I have, but—" He looks over, grinning like he's got every damn thing in the world figured out. "I know it now. The truth."

"The truth, huh?" Dojima's chin sets against his chest. "Of what?"

"Something you have to figure out yourself."

Souji laughs when Dojima does nothing but raise an eyebrow.

"It's easy, Uncle. I'll give you a hint." The teenager lifts a single hand up, stretches his fingers out, and clamps his fist shut in one motion. Grinning. Like every damn thing in the world figured out. "You just reach out to it."

* * *

Dojima drains his mug of coffee, glances at the clock, then shouts up the stairs. "Souji, come on! You're going to miss your train!"

There's an affirmative sound from above. Moments later his nephew descends, one bag slung over his shoulder and another hefted beneath his arm. "Where's Nanako?"

"Wait!" His daughter flies down the stairs, brandishing a digital camera that she holds up towards Souji. "I want to take just one more picture of you and me, Big Bro! So when you come back, I can remember exactly what we looked like before you left!"

Ryotaro glances at his watch. "Nanako, we really don't have _time_..."

"I still have one more bag upstairs, Uncle," Souji interrupts, setting the shoulder bag on the table. He's smiling as he crouches down and takes the camera from his cousin. "Would you mind getting it for me? This won't take more than a minute."

Damn kid.

Dojima rubs the back of his neck and huffs out a consent before marching up the stairs. Souji's door is wide open. He presses a hand into each side of the door frame and leans forward, surveying the spare room that he'll probably never have the heart to use for storage again.

Empty is all he can think. The futon had been thrown in a closet that morning, the shelves are empty, the haphazard tower of books are cleared from the desk. The rug is rolled up and leaning against the far corner, and the curtains are spread wide open for the sunlight to stream in. Whatever had become of the weapons he found in this room months ago, they aren't here anymore.

Once he spots the bag on the couch, he steps forward into the room and lifts it, realizing a breath too late that it wasn't zipped up. Something clatters onto the floor. Ryotaro curses, dropping the bag, and stoops to pick it up.

It's...a video tape?

Nobody records on cassettes anymore. He turns it around in his hands: the tape is wound neatly, but the white strip of paper attached to the front has been ravaged with red permanent marker. There are definitely words there—and a number, he thinks—but the angry-looking scribble winding across label makes it impossible to make out.

He looks at the clock, then at the television seated across the room. Old thing. Not sure why he's kept it around, really; Souji never seemed to use it much except to nurse his strange obsession with the weather. But it has a functioning cassette player.

Before he realizes what it is exactly that he's doing, Dojima pushes the tape into the slot and flicks the T.V.'s power button. As the old, unused machinery whirs to life he walks over to the door and shuts it—just in case.

Hell, what is he _doing_? Turning your nephew's room upside-down is one thing when you find him hiding weapons, but he hasn't been on the force long enough to hear a story as stupid as someone being bludgeoned to death by a video cassette. He should push eject and turn off that television and put the tape back and walk downstairs right now—

A picture flickers to life on the screen. The first thing Dojima notices is the timestamp in the corner: 2003. Part of that technological gray area where some people still recorded tapes. This video is old, but not _that_ old.

The second thing he notices is that the boy in the focus of the camera is Souji. Young, skin blanched even paler by the resolution, hair a bit shorter and shoulders a bit lighter. But he's memorized the set of that mouth and those gray eyes.

The third thing he notices is the single slice of cake sitting on a plate in front of Souji. The fourth is that the woman dressed in a business suit standing at the other end of the table is his sister.

Finally, he realizes that this is a home video of Souji's birthday.

"Have you made a wish, dear?" The sound of her voice strikes Dojima somewhere deep; it's not the one he remembers. Where there was warmth and cheer, now there is nothing but forced pleasantness, like she doesn't know how to talk to her own child. She checks her watch and he feels a snarl rise in his chest.

"Yes," Souji says. The sound dies in his throat. There is _nothing_ in that voice. Empty as the rooms around them both. "I wish for the continued success of you and father."

"That's very practical of you, Souji," Ryotaro's sister says like she's the damnedest proud mother in the world.

"And how old is our son today?" The cameraman speaks, his voice tight and bordering on awkward. Dojima is suddenly unsure whether Souji's father was just humoring him with the question, or if he really had no fucking clue. He doesn't want to find out so much as he wants to find his brother-in-law and punch him in the face.

Souji's face is quiet as he stares down the single flickering candle on his cake. He looks more like a doll than a child. "Nine."

And suddenly he's decades in the past and looking up at his sister who stares coldly back—her face hard and pressed like her suit, arms stiffly at her sides, thin smile pulled only as far as it takes to fool a child, the dimple in her cheek replaced by wrinkled lines. Her eyes are still the color of steel and nothing else is there.

Jesus. Hell.

What _happened_?

From the television speakers, a phone begins to ring. The camera turns towards his sister, who answers it right fucking there. "Hello? Yes, that's right. Is it an emergency? All right, we'll be—yes, but we're almost done. Right. We'll meet you." She puts the phone away and reaches out to touch the cameraman's shoulder. "Emergency meeting."

The picture swerves back to Souji one more time. His gaze never left the candle. "Looks like we'll need every bit of that wish, sport. You're a man now, so take care of the house while we're gone, okay?"

Souji nods.

"Oh, I forgot!" Ryotaro's sister trots into the picture with her purse already slung over her shoulder. There's a small card in her hand that she sets in front of Souji. "You probably don't remember him, dear, but your Uncle Ryotaro sent you a birthday card."

The picture blurs as the camera is set on its side, still fixed on Souji. He hasn't moved an inch. In the background, Dojima can hear his sister muttering to her husband. "The card is very sweet, but idealistic—I suppose law enforcement really was the best career choice for Ryotaro. I hope Souji doesn't take after him—imagine, our son! Chasing down criminals!"

Souji, as though oblivious to his parents' loud chattering, reaches for the card and begins to read it. His expression shifts for the first time in the video—nearly imperceptible, but a there's a slight lift in his eyes. Dojima is grateful for even that much.

Souji folds the card neatly and leans forward to blow the candle out.

"Whoops, I left the camera on!"

The picture jostles once—then ends.

"Blind." Dojima's own voice rises just above the sound of whirring as the tape rewinds. Sunlight streams through the window, and his silhouette is cast on the T.V. "I've been so tied up with my own—so damn blind to the truth."

The cassette player clicks. He takes the tape, puts it back in the bag, and goes downstairs.

* * *

Nanako is still a bit red-eyed when they pull into the driveway, so he asks her to make them some coffee. There's something in the novelty of having an 'adult drink' that always cheers her up; she doesn't seem to realize that she's far more of an adult than she's meant to be already. With Souji gone, Dojima will have to change that himself.

As he's taking off his shoes at the door, it hits him like the train that pulled away with his nephew in tow: Souji is gone.

Not _gone_, because he has his cell phone and even promised to call the moment he was safely home. But 'home' doesn't mean the Dojima household for Souji anymore—it doesn't mean shuffling newspaper pages or the warm, lingering scent of rain or painfully cheery Junes jingles.

It means a cold room in an empty house at a big, dirty city with parents who can't remember his age or give enough of a fuck to give him one day a year.

There must something about that Dojima parenting.

Dojima stifles a curse for Nanako's sake, determined to distract himself. Might as well pack up Souji's T.V. into the garage. He climbs the stairs and enters what was Souji's room for the second time that day, but before he can make a beeline for the television, a spot of white under the coffee table catches his eyes.

Hell, he's snooped once today. Why not twice?

He bends down and reaches under the table, drawing away with what turns out to be a card. Must have fallen out of Souji's duffel bag with the video tape. Dojima turns it in his hands, only to have his heart jump into his throat when he reads the title:

_Happy Birthday to a very special nephew!_

Throat dry, Ryotaro opens the card. Sprawled across the page is the thick, unsteady scribble of his own handwriting.

_Happy birthday, kiddo! I'd be surprised if you remembered me, but I'm your uncle Ryotaro. I keep trying to convince your mother to bring you for a visit, but I guess she doesn't want to come to a backwater town like Inaba, and your aunt Chisato hates the big crowds of the city. Women, huh? :)_

_Heck, your cousin Nanako just turned one a few months ago and still no dice. I had to see you in diapers, so you'd think your mom would return the favor! That's it: now that you're all grown up, see if you can heckle__ her into a family reunion._

_It's all on your shoulders, kid! Melt her heart so we can be a family together._

_Love,_

_Ryotaro Dojima_

Dojima swallows, his hand shaking as he reads the last line once more. Circled in red permanent marker is the phrase _'we can be a family together'_, and beneath it, in a less refined version of the writing he's seen on so many translation notes and book reports, is a single, bolded caption:

**_'real wish'_**

**_

* * *

_**

"Isn't your coffee getting cold?"

"Nah, we just poured it. We're waiting on a certain someone."

"Uncle, _you_ didn't have to see the stewardess' face when I asked her to fill a mug I brought myself. I thought she was going to Galactic Punt me for a minute."

"What?"

"Never mind. Ah—thank you, ma'am. Sorry for the trouble. All right, am I on speaker?"

"Yup! Hey, Big Bro!"

"Hey, Nanako. You know, you two still haven't told me why this is so important."

"It was dad's idea!"

"Let's just say I did some...reaching out, was it?"

"...I see. In that case, I'm ready when you are."

"Dad?"

Dojima lifts his mug, and thinks that yeah, it's pretty easy to grin when you have every damn thing in the world figured out.


End file.
